It was one in the afternoon, the Saturday before Thanksgiving 2009. In four hours, my husband, Ryan, and I were due at a friend’s house for our annual “Friendsgiving” celebration. After a two-year struggle with a debilitating autoimmune disease, I had committed to a drastic dietary overhaul, eliminating breads, dairy, sugar, and certain carbohydrates. This decision, however, collided head-on with the food-centric holiday season. My fondest memories were intertwined with holiday traditions, almost all revolving around food. The joy of gathering around a table laden with delicious dishes felt lost, replaced by a sense of abandonment.
I had signed up to bring mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie, dishes I could no longer eat. I could prepare them for others, but the thought of only consuming turkey and perhaps a plain salad felt like a cruel deprivation of the festive meal I cherished. Determined to find a solution, I decided to make a second version of mashed potatoes for myself, using steamed cauliflower as a substitute. Following a recipe I found online, I pureed the cauliflower into a runny, soup-like consistency that bore no resemblance to the fluffy mashed potatoes I craved. The stark contrast between the real mashed potatoes, with their rich flavor and texture, and the bland cauliflower mush was undeniable.
The pumpkin pie presented a different challenge. There was no substitute for the flour, butter, cream, and sugar that formed its essence. The aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the kitchen as the pie baked, a tantalizing torture I could only escape by leaving the room. A part of me wished the pie would burn, offering a convenient excuse for its absence and sparing me the agony of smelling but not tasting my favorite dessert.
We arrived at our friends’ house, laden with dishes. I discreetly mentioned bringing “real” mashed potatoes to avoid alarming anyone with my dietary restrictions. As the football game commenced outside, I found myself confronted with a tempting spread of chips, onion dip, and ranch dressing – all forbidden. Resigned, I munched on dry carrots and celery, enviously eyeing the creamy dips.
The aroma of the roasted turkey signaled the start of the feast. As I surveyed the buffet, I grappled with what I could and couldn’t eat. Ryan gently reminded me of my commitment as I reached for the stuffing. I bypassed the creamy green bean casserole, the sugary sweet potatoes, the ranch-dressed salad, and the buttery rolls. My plate held only dry turkey and the watery cauliflower “mashed potatoes,” which spread across the plate like a flood. Surrounded by friends enjoying their meals, I felt isolated and self-conscious, silently grieving the loss of my culinary traditions.
Looking at my pathetic plate, a thought sparked: why not create my own recipes? I enjoyed cooking, but I had always relied on established recipes. The thought of developing my own dishes felt daunting, yet the alternative – a life devoid of flavorful food – was unbearable. This dismal Thanksgiving dinner became the catalyst for a culinary journey.
The desire for Food By Me, tailored to my dietary needs yet still delicious and celebratory, became a driving force. This marked the beginning of a journey to reclaim the joy of food, not just for myself but for others facing similar challenges. I resolved to transform traditional recipes into healthier versions, ensuring that no one would have to endure a holiday meal as bleak as mine. Food by me would become synonymous with flavor, health, and inclusivity.
This personal need for delicious, healthy food by me evolved into a mission. Recreating beloved dishes with nourishing ingredients became a way to share hope and empower others to enjoy food without compromise. This journey, born from a Thanksgiving disappointment, led to a culinary revolution, proving that food by me could be both healing and celebratory.
[
